


Sour Gold

by Ethsei



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Cheating, Closeted Character, Cocaine, Depression, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Heroin, M/M, Withdrawal, louis' a dick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 18:49:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ethsei/pseuds/Ethsei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you’d have told me five years ago I’d be locked up in a hotel bathroom injecting a speedball into my arm with an long ultra-fine U-100, 1cc needle, I’d have probably told you to fuck right off. </p><p>Yet, here I was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sour Gold

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a bit... disjointed at times because I really wanted to get inside Louis' thoughts. So expect the sentence structure to change per mood/situation, whatever. Quite graphic descriptions of drug use (mild gore?).

If you’d have told me five years ago I’d be locked up in a hotel bathroom injecting a speedball into my arm with an long ultra-fine U-100, 1cc  needle, I’d have probably told you to fuck right off. I’d never get mixed up in that shite – dirty business and all. Yet, here I was. And if I was breathing heavy, who cared? Because when the tile lines are blurring all together and your brain is pumping blood, thumping louder and louder and you feel so goddamn alive that you can barely contain it – well the problems aren’t problems anymore, and why would I care that I had a show the next night when I was this fucking high? Smack, coke, acid, ecstasy, Vicodin, whatever.

 

I hate my father.

 

My real father.

 

He was an absolute dick. Maybe that’s why I’ve got a few screws loose. My mum – she’s all right, yeah. Sisters, good, yeah. I probably hate my cousin. Probably. Not too sure his name but I feel like a cousin should be hated. Yeah.

 

But whatever that’s a whole different story for another day.

 

The point I was trying to make, yeah, was that my life hadn’t gone exactly as I’d planned it and what’s that thing they say? The best laid plans oft go awry. Fucking John Steinbeck. Good bloke and all. Anyway, I guess it all boiled down to that one night, and I found that stories always made more sense when you started from the beginning, so.

 

I guess you could say that night was what fucked it all up.

 

Stan had been my best mate from as long as I could remember. We did everything together. Literally. We even had matching shoes, socks, and shirts. Joined at the hip, we were. It was nice, in a way. He was like the brother, or twin mayhap, that I’d never had. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my sisters, all four of them, but like sometimes I thought it’d be nice to have another guy in the house. Mum was always so rocky with her relationships. The men came in and left through the back door on the regular. I was, I guess you could call it, the man of the house. It was a bit of a responsibility—something I never had quite liked. I was more of a free spirit, like. But, you know, four young girls and a mum working full time, a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do, so they say.

 

Stan was a good lad though. Came round to help me put the twins, Phoebe and Daisy, and Lottie and Fizzie (Charlotte and Félicité in full) to bed. They were right fucking terrors, I tell you. Now Lottie was a bit older she was simultaneously getting easier and harder to handle. I didn’t have to baby her no more, but she’d started to reach the ‘I’m way too fucking cool for any of you’ stage.

 

Fucking joy.

 

So, anyway. Stan was me best mate, so naturally on my time off after the X-factor tour, I headed back to Doncaster and crashed his house. His parents were out on a trip or some shit for the weekend, and Stan had invited a few of his dodgier friends over for a bit of a bash – nothing too intense, but fun nonetheless. Maybe forty or so people rocked up, and beer was spilled everywhere, salt and lemons on the floor, but no one really cared—not even Stan. I didn’t doubt he’d be having a bitch about it tomorrow when he was more sober, though. At least he wasn’t all pedantic, though. He handed me a smoke and I lit it up with his lighter. It was warm and slid easy through my lungs. Tasted fuckin’ great, too. I only smoked on occasion—I didn’t want to go around hurting my voice and all that. Just a social thing, really. And I was thinking maybe I’d go flirt with some easy girl and steal her vodka then run, but Stan grabbed my shirt and got me looking down at his hand, his eyes all excited.

 

“Look what I fuckin’ scored.”

 

“Shit,” I said, genuinely surprised. While I knew Stan was a bit of a party man, I hadn’t quite pegged him for a hard drugs kinda guy. I knew he was into E and weed, sometimes some LSD if he was feeling adventurous, but somehow this felt like he was crossing a line.

 

“The fuck did you get that from?”

 

He smirked and emptied the pack on the table, tapping out the remnants. “Me mate knows a guy who knows a guy and all that shite. ‘S only my second time having a go at it but it makes you feel fuckin’ amazing, Lou. I kid you not. This is something you wanna try, at least once.”

 

I thought about it for a moment. Sure I’d dabbled in a bit of this and that in my time, usually just weed and some prescription shit, but nothing super major. Just a bit of fun to get the party going and all. This felt a bit different.

 

“Y’ can have half if you want. But try it out, man. Just makes you feel like you’ve had way too much caffeine and you’re the absolute shit. In a good way. Like, honest, if it was that bad I wouldn’t be giving it to me best mate, would I? I care about y’ and all. Wouldn’t want to see that pretty face fucked over.”

 

 I clapped him on the back of the neck. “A sap, you are. Fine, yeah, I’ll give it a try then.”

 

“That’s the spirit!” Stan grinned.

 

He took out a razor and chopped the powder up a tad finer and divvied it up in to two lines. He rolled up a bill and snuffed it up, head reeling back and eyes popping out.

 

“Shit,” he said, dazed.

 

It took him a moment to come back down to earth, then he smiled at me, a bit dopey. He handed me the bill. “Right, just breathe in real hard, yeah? Keep one side of your nose blocked and just have at it. No dramas. Easy as.”

 

I shrugged. Geronimo! The powder felt hot and scratchy and kind of gross. I gave a few more sniffs before dropping the bill. I rubbed my nose, all powdery.

 

“Takes a good ten or more to reach its peak, depending, but you’ll know when it’s hit you. You’ll have a real good night, mate. ‘F ya need more just find me.”

 

He clapped me on the back once, hard, then jumped into the fray of conversations and drunken dancing. Good for him, that paddy bastard.

 

I sat alone on this fucking ugly orange couch and stared into the crowd wondering, what would my mother would think?

 

Mother’s kind of fly out of your head when you’re making out with the third chick, (or was one of them a bloke? No matter.), of the night.   

 

Once it hit, it _hit_ like a fucking Japanese bullet train. I _was_ the bullet train, because dear fucking God I could not slow down. I was on _fire._ I was fucking awesome. Someone would probably pay me to shut the fuck up and stop talking about myself, and my awesome achievements, but honestly I just did not give a single fuck.

 

God. How was I this fucking awesome? After I’d taken a piss I just couldn’t help admiring myself a bit (a lot) in the mirror. Fucking handsome, I was. Pretty eyes, nice chin, like just an overall A plus plus. One point to Louis for being the hottest dude ever. It was no wonder the girls were frothing all over me because hot fucking damn. The girls (and guys, whatever, no discrimination in Louis Tomlinson’s mind.) almost had an aneurysm after seeing me and the lads topless in the Kiss You video we released last week. 

 

I could see why.

 

I’d only been on this shit for maybe twenty minutes, but I felt like a fucking champion. I stood on Stan’s couch and yelled, “I will become the universe!” Stan seemed pretty fucking wired from what I could see. He was hopping through rooms so fast that I’d glance at him one second, and the next he’d be moved on and popping something or drinking some funky looking liquor. Oh yeah, man, this was the life.

 

I ended up getting two more top ups off Stan over the night, throwing, _literally,_ throwing money in showers at him laughing like a maniac off his drugs. I was pretty sure this tiny bleach blonde with heavy makeup, Taylor Momsen type, nicked a few bills, but hey, who was counting? Definitely not Stan. Yeah, really definitely not considering he was rolling on the floor in the money at the time and yeah he’d had a bit too much but it was a fucking party, and party we did.

 

I stumbled back to Harry and I’s flat at maybe four or something in the morning—I didn’t really check, or care to for that matter. Yeah we probably had to be up at some fucking ungodly hour like six in the morning but who the fuck cared? It was a fucking shit job, anyway. All we did was prance around and look good and thirteen year olds would lose their shit. God, what a fucking mess.

 

And when I went to slip into bed, well yeah, it hit me a bit then that I’d probably fucked up a bit because I was in a fucking long term relationship with the guy sleeping in my bed and I’d snogged more people than I could count on one hand that night and fuck. Well. Shit. That always tended to put a bit of a fucking downer on the morning. Or was it still technically considered night?

 

I just had to cross my fingers that no sneaky fuckers had their phones out and were snapping candids. The media would have an absolute field day. ‘Louis Tomlinson cheats on girlfriend, Eleanor Calder’. But like she could give two fucks. They’d send her out to get papped with teary eyes and she’d probably tweet some shit like ‘me and Louis are figuring it out’ while in the meantime I’d be giving less than a single shit about her and more than two shits about Harry who be crying _real_ tears. And well this was a right fucking mess.

 

I decided to deal with it how I did every stressful situation. I slept on it.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> (psst, psa: drug/alcohol use is not an excuse to be an asshole)


End file.
